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“Can you show me the way?” Sarah asks.
Wilhelmina shakes her head.
“Why not?”
It will take you, she scribbles.
Suddenly, I’m in the forest in the Winterlands where the damned hang from barren trees. The vines hold them fast at their necks; their feet dangle. One struggles, and the sharp branches press into her flesh to keep her.
“Help me,” she says in a strangled whisper.
The fog clears and I see her face going gray.
Circe.
CHAPTER SIXTY
FOR TWO IMPOSSIBLY LONG DAYS, I’M TRAPPED IN OUR house in London with no way to get word to Kartik, Ann, or Felicity. I don’t know what is happening in the realms, and I’m sick with worry. But each time I become brave enough to draw on the magic, I remember Circe’s warning that the magic has changed, that we’ve shared it, that it might be joined to something dark and unpredictable. I feel the corners of the room grow threatening with shadows of what I may not be able to control, and I push the power down, far away from me, and crawl, trembling, into my bed.
With no plan of escape in sight, I’ve been resigned to the life of a cosseted young lady of London society as Grandmama and I pay calls. We drink tea that is too weak and never hot enough for my liking. The ladies pass the time with gossip and hearsay. This is what they have in place of freedom—time and gossip. Their lives are small and careful. I do not wish to live this way. I should like to make my mark. To venture opinions that may not be polite or even correct but are mine nonetheless. If I am to be hanged for anything, I should like to feel that I go to the gallows on my own strength.
I spend the evenings reading to Father. His health improves a bit—he is able to sit at his desk with his maps and books—but he will not be well again. It is decided that after my debut, Father will travel to a warmer clime. We all agree that this will restore his vitality. “Hot sun and warm wind—that’s what’s needed,” we say through tight smiles. What we cannot bring ourselves to say seeps into the very bones of the house until it seems to whisper the truth to us in the stillness: He is dying. He is dying. He is dying.
On the third day, I am nearly out of my mind with worry when Grandmama announces that we are to attend a garden party in honor of Lucy Fairchild. I insist that I’m not well and should stay home—for perhaps I can sneak away to Victoria and a train back to Spence whilst she is gone—but Grandmama won’t hear of it, and we arrive at a garden in Mayfair that is blooming with every sort of beauty imaginable.
I spy Lucy sitting alone on a bench under a willow tree. Heart in my mouth, I sit beside her. She ignores me.
“Miss Fairchild, I—I wanted to explain about Simon’s behavior at the ball,” I say.
She has the good breeding to sit very still. She holds her temper as tightly as she does the reins of her horse. “Go on.”
“It might have seemed that Mr. Middleton was too familiar with me that evening, but that was not the case. In truth, when my chaperone was momentarily away, a gentleman whom I did not know, and who had had far too much to drink, pressed his suit to the point of being improper.”
Believe me…please believe…
“I was quite frightened, naturally, being all alone,” I lie. “Fortunately, Mr. Middleton saw my dilemma, and as our families are old friends, he took immediate action without thinking of the consequences. That is the sort of man he is. I thought you should know the true circumstances before passing judgment upon him.”
Slowly, her face loses its misery. A shy hope presses her lips into a smile. “He sent the most beautiful flowers round yesterday. And a clever silk box with a hidden compartment.”
“For all your secrets,” I say, suppressing a smile.
Her eyes light up. “That is what Simon said! He told me he’s nothing without me.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you so private a sentiment.”
It stings to hear that and yet I find it does not sting quite as much as it might have. Simon and Lucy are the same sort of people. They like things pleasant and untroubled. I could not abide such an arrangement, but it suits them.
“It was quite all right to do so,” I assure her.
Lucy fiddles with the brooch Simon gave her, the one he once gave to me. “I understand that the two of you were quite…close.”
“I was not the right sort of girl for him,” I say. I am surprised when I realize that it is not a lie. “I daresay that I have never seen him merrier than he is when he’s in your company. I hope you will find every happiness together.”
“If I should forgive him.” Her pride is back.
“Yes. That is solely within your power,” I say, and it is truer than she can know. For I can’t change what has happened. That is the path behind us and there is now only the course ahead.
Lucy rises. Our visit is at an end.
“Thank you, Miss Doyle. It was good of you to speak to me.” She does not extend her hand, nor would I expect her to.
